


Misplaced Mercy

by cedi



Category: Overwatch (Video Game), Warcraft - All Media Types
Genre: Dimension Travel, F/F, Not Serious, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22242691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedi/pseuds/cedi
Summary: Things had been going well for Talon ever since the downfall of Overwatch. They had plied their trade on every continent, ruled entire cities and kept the elite of this world on their tippy-toes. Life had been good.Then the newly reformed Overwatch attacked, unleashing a new secret weapon that shattered the carefully maintained status quo completely and forced Talon into the defensive.They had lost ground ever since as the weapon, Mercy, was far too powerful. How did one stop someone that not only spits in the face of Death but pulls Death over her knees and beats the ever-living shit out of it?By making her someone else's problem, of course...
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. Birth of an EVIL plan

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story came to me while reading the excellent story: "Breaking the Hourglass" by 0o_Demigod and having a discussion about the Moth-meta with a friend.   
> What if a ridiculously OP version of Mercy was banished from the Overwatch world to haunt some other plane of existence? Like Azeroth for example? What a beautiful mess would that create?  
> Ever since this idea wormed its way into my head I wasn't able to shake the silly notion of this story and finally decided to just start writing it...
> 
> Anyway, this story is not meant to be taken seriously and I'm also not sure how many chapters there will be, nor do I have a lot of stuff prepared. Though I do have some ideas for a number of scenes.   
> I'll guess we'll have to see.

Somewhere in the world there was a hidden room where on rare occasions men, women and omnics of ill repute gathered to plan their nefarious deeds. This room was large, far too large for the usually small number of conspirators gathering there; their business not one where trust grows easily.

The large, rotund table in the middle offered enough seating space for a good dozen people; even in this case where people was a rather loose definition. Behind the seats the architects of this facility placed several stands for the henchmen of the illustrious villains that called this place their own. Their placement had not gone over easy, some had doubted the prudence of inviting so many people into their midst, raising concerns about “Operational Security” and similar nonsense. Luckily, clearer minds had prevailed; after all, how could one grandstand without a proper audience? And that didn't even touch the matter of a good villainous laugh… Doing that in an empty room was just pathetic.

That day, the occupants of the room didn’t have to worry about that. The meeting place was packed to the brim with the crème de la crème of the criminal underworld. Mafiosi of all nations rubbed shoulder on shoulder--and sometimes pointier things--in these seats; an outbreak of violence only prevented by the huge, red and black garbed guards standing in between the rows, glaring from under their face masks at the scum gathered around them. They, at least, clearly knew who was truly important in this room, even if their thoughts may disagree with those of the Dons.

Or on a second thought, maybe they didn’t. As so far not even one of these crime linchpins had dared to request a seat at the table in the middle; to dangerous, they had decided as a whole without ever speaking about it.

Then the seats in the middle--the ones below the shine of the dim lamps--were filled by the worst of the worst the dark underbelly of the world had to offer.

At the head of the table resided Akande ‘Doomfist’ Ogundimu, the murderous chairman of Talon. The huge, clearly augmented African man was flanked by the shiny form of Maximillian on one side, and by the crazed scientist Moira O’Deorain on the other side.

Further down the table more of these super villains followed, their names and faces known by every child on the planet: Reaper, Widowmaker, Roadhog, Junkrat and more.

“You all know why I called you here!” Doomfist stated after the last of their number had found their seat, his sonorous voice reaching every nook and cranny of the room.

All of them nodded, even the mob on the stands; there was only one issue that was deserving of a plenary assembly.

“Mercy,” O’Deorain voiced the thought on everybody’s mind disdainfully, her face drawn into an unflattering grimace.

“Indeed,” Akande nodded. “She has become too much of a nuisance to ignore any longer.”

The room rang loudly as Maximillian slammed the table with his metallic fist, “a nuisance? Ha! That bitch is downright bad for business!”

“Not only business,” the Mexican girl with the colourful hair added, “look at what she did to poor Amelie.”

The room filled with the rustling of Armani suits for a moment as all heads turned towards the sniper in question, followed by more of the same as all of them shuddered as if on cue.

The girl was in a dreadful state, her dark hair was a greasy bird’s nest, her skin even more sallow than usual and her mental state the worst it had ever been. 

The French woman was currently sitting in a bent over manner with her knees and long legs tightly packed against her chest, slowly rocking herself while quietly mumbling to herself, “Un tir, non mort. Un tir, non mort...” _One shot, not dead. One shot, not dead..._

“The killer birdy has it right,” the by far most bedraggled looking man piped up, “I’ll go cuckoo too if my kabloowies don’t kill anything soon.”

For a moment silence reigned then the huge man next to him grunted something unintelligible from behind his gas mask.

“What do you mean with: Already mad?” The squirrely man asked indignantly, somehow finding a meaning in the mumbling. 

“Fawkes!” Akande barked viciously, “we are not here to talk about your mental state, no matter how precarious it may be. We are here to find a solution to the Mercy issue.”

“And what do you suggest,” Sombra snarked as she checked the violet coating of her fingernails for cracks.

She continued her taunting before the villain had a chance to answer her question by flicking her immaculate fingers in front of her face, forcing a purplish hard light display into existence. “Last time I checked we have tried: Shooting her, stabbing her, crushing her, blowing her up, poisoning her” she counted each one of their attempts at killing her off on her fingers as she read out her list, switching hands whenever she ran out of unused fingers, “we threw her into a vat of acid, vat of molten metal, vat of radioactive waste and a vat of biological waste,” she chuckled for a moment as she remembered how the usually timid woman had reacted to that last one. The fallout had been glorious, at least when viewed from a great distance through multiple layers of the most sophisticated electronic protection money could buy. “Suffocation, burial under half a mountain, burial at sea, spacing… No idea how she found her way back from that one, Moira’s brainwashing...” she smirked across the table at the Irish woman, “we all know how well that one went; remind me, what exactly were you doing with her feet again?”

“We decided never to talk about that unfortunate incident ever again!” The blushing scientist spluttered out angrily and then did her best to ignore the loudly cackling Sombra.

“Throwing her into an active volcano, the Mariana Trench… and hmm,” she snapped her fingers loudly as if trying to remember something. After a second or two of showmanship she bolted upright in her seat and drew her face into her best rendition of the Eureka moment, “ah, yeah, we nuked her. Whose brain fart was that by the way?”

“I’d like to know that too,” Maximillian piped in. His statements raised a few brows as he rarely ever spoke up during these meetings; he cared little for the ills of man or machine and usually just stayed in the background disconcerting the audience with his blank expression. “That Iris-damned stunt cost us a fortune.” Unless of course the subject was money, especially if he had a claim to it. 

“I don’t know,” Akande admitted, “but who ever it was must have balls made of steel.”

A snort from Sombra put the room’s thoughts on that matter to voice.

“Anyway,” he continued, ignoring the young hacker’s outburst, “I thought we could try some time displacement stuff this time.” He smiled smugly at the audience, expecting praise for this idea that could only come from a tactical genius like him.

After a moment of baffled silence Reaper leant forwards in his seat and brought most of his shadowy form into the light of the weak lamps spaced above the table. It didn’t help much as most of his form was still blurred by the black smoke that always followed in his wake like an especially clingy puppy. 

“Forward or backward?”

Akande eyed his most ruthless asset curiously, “backwards I guess, but what does it matter?”

The agent of death chuckled quietly, somehow managing to make the normal sound carry a promise of violence, “are you **that** eager to live in the United States of Mercy?” 

“Forwards, then,” Doomfist grumbled, unhappy that the killer had poked a hole into his plan that quickly. 

“Pointless! If we have the technology, they have the technology. She’ll be back before we sent her off.”

Akande deflated visibly at that, almost disappearing in his throne like seat at the head of the table. He had made a complete fool out of himself; he thought and gritted his teeth.

“Maybe Akande’s idea still has some merit,” Moira said thoughtfully, making Akande perk up again, “if we send her to the end of the universe, she might not be able to return.”

“Great!” Akande blurted out prematurely as he already saw himself as the victor, the gallant champion of evil that rid the world of the bane that is Angela Ziegler.

“Although…”

He blanched; he hated those words out of the mouth of that woman with a passion. The damned banshee just loved to trick him like this.

“What?” He prompted her after a moment.

“The energy requirements to propel someone that far forwards would probably require the power output of a galaxy or two.” She finally ended her thought with a devilish smirk. 

“Your minds are constrained by your one-dimensional thinking,” Sigma mused, the first words the new arrival to the council had ever offered up. Usually the older man just sat there at the other end of the table with his bare feet resting on top of it. A feat that amazed most of the people in this room to this very day as the chairs featured very steep, very inflexible back support that even stumped Sombra in all her attempts at leaning back.

Although, some would consider using your power over gravity to balance your chair impossibly far back cheating.

With a heavy sigh Akande dropped his head into his hands and mumbled past them, “why again did we free you from that damned institution?”

“You want to send her to a different dimension?” 

“Ah, I see at least young Jamison has broken some of the chains binding his mind,” the old scientist chuckled. 

With a lazy smile on his lips he glanced up from the two spheres that where bobbing around above his open palm and spoke directly to Junkrat, “that is indeed my plan, young friend.”

“That...” Moira started hesitantly, “might actually work. I wouldn’t mind foisting our little problem off to a mirror me.” She looked around the room incredulously as if she couldn’t really believe the words she was saying. Finally, her eyes came to a halt on Akande, the man seemingly pumping himself up for something.

“But what if they send her back?” He asked, not to be outdone by his subordinates. 

Before Moira could offer something to disperse his concerns Sigma spoke up, “Infinite possibilities!” he stated with a certain finality as if these words would solve all their problems.

_Which they actually did, in a way,_ Moira mused. They could just send her to a different dimension if she managed to return and with infinite different realities there **had** to be at least one where she would be stuck, although finding it could take a while.

“Moira, can this work? Do we have the resources for it?” Akande asked tentatively, having learned his temporary lesson from his earlier blunder.

The woman in question thought it over for a moment and then nodded to herself. She couldn’t be completely sure that it would be possible--there were just too many factors involved that were out of her control--but if Sigma could manage on his side they just might succeed; admittedly that was a rather big if. 

Still, she allowed a wide grin to move onto her face as she faced Doomfist, “yes, it just might work!”

The effect her words had on him were astounding. The leader of Talon visibly grew in size as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders and turned him once more into the intimidating figure that he was before Mercy had joined the fray. 

He cleared his throat, using the moment to rise from his seat, and opened his arms wide.

“Brothers! Sisters!” He intoned loudly, “you’ve heard it! Let this day mark the beginning of the end of the age of Mercy. Soon, very soon, we will throw of the covers of squalor as we swarm out into the open from our safe-houses and reclaim the streets of this world for us.” His voice rose ever higher in volume and his excitement was palpable as he pressed onwards, “and the ditches will overflow with the blood of our enemies! Blood that will mark the very end of the current world order and will ring in our grandiose reign.” He pointed one of his massive arms at the still reclining Sigma and then moved it in a circle over Junkrat until his index finger came to a rest on the Irish scientist, “no resources will be spared to reach our salvation, for everything we expend now we will regain a thousand fold later on.” He paused for dramatic effect, raising his arms above his head, “so, brothers and sisters, head out to your homes and arm your men. Our enemies are living on borrowed time, and the moment to collect approaches fast!”

As the last of his words rang out into silence the room erupted with applause and the mad howling of the assembled villains, their outpouring of mirth formed a terrifying cacophony which held on for a good minute or two. Then the men in the stands got up from their uncomfortable seats, the older ones stretching their hurting backs, and then slowly filed out of the room, slapping the occasional shoulder in a good-natured manner. 

The guards in their heavy armour followed suit, making sure that they would leave the place in a coordinated, inconspicuous fashion and ensuring that none of the Dons accidentally lost one of their people on the way out. It wouldn’t do for them to be privy to anything that was discussed by their betters outside of the general assembly. 

The villains at the table patiently remained silent for the entire process until the last echo of steel-toed boots on marble floor died away. 

“Sigma, Moira and Fawkes, this plan is your first priority. Put all other projects to the side, no matter what!” Doomfist was the first one to break the silence, dishing out instructions that were already clear to everyone still left in the room; they were professionals after all.

Still, Moira couldn’t let this go by unchallenged, “why me? I’m a biochemist, not a physicist.”

Akande waved his hand around as he explained with a pained expression on his face, “I need someone to translate their crazy…” he pointed at Jamison who had sidled over to Sigma, whispering theatrically into the ear of the older man. 

“And someone needs to keep them in check,” he added as the entire room overheard the word explosives; the squirrely man clearly too infatuated with them to keep his excitement in check. “And I doubt that Hog will be enough this time.”

“Fair enough.”

“The rest of you are going to run interference for those three. Make sure that they get whatever they need and most importantly distract Overwatch from our real goal. They absolutely can **not** learn about our plan. If the do they will come down on us like a ton of bricks and I highly doubt we can withstand a full-frontal assault now that they have started to recruit new people to their cause.” He stared at the purple haired hacker for this last part as she was their best weapon in the fight on that front. If there was one thing that girl had figured out to a T, then it was how to play keep away with whoever was stupid enough to play ball with her.

The hacker waved his concern off nonchalantly, “easy.”

“Very well then,” he clapped his hands, “then let’s get to it.”

The villains dispersed quickly after that with only the three core members of the plan staying behind to start with their scheming; building a device to send someone to a different dimension was quite a task and would require all of them to work very closely together from the get go, something Moira was loath to do as Junkrat hadn’t earned his nickname for nothing… The man reeked.

Outside the room Sombra was strolling quietly down one of the many brightly lit hallways heading for one of the hidden exits. Her fingers played idly with a glowing, violet marble, the digital representation of the recording she had made during their meeting. 

She wasn’t entirely sure what she should do with it.

The correct path of action would be to send it to Athena. That would be the least that was expected from Overwatch’s premier double agent.

But then again that would really throw a wrench into Talon’s plans, and her retirement fund. Also, it wouldn’t be something a double agent for Talon would do…

Quite a conundrum she had there. What to do, what to do.

Reaching the hidden door, she snuffed out the violet light and entered the passcode into the unassuming temperature console placed next to it. The screen winked out the moment she entered the last digit and the dark display showed her a reflection of her face for a short moment; a face that sported a devilish smirk.

She had made her decision. She would once again play on her own team. Whatever the outcome, she would still win.

A win-win scenario if you will...


	2. An Obvious Trap is Obviously not a Trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read some Warcraft fanfiction and remembered that this was still waiting for an update. Sorry it took so long.

Months later and in an entirely different place Sylvanas Windrunner was sitting on her throne of bones and wondered how in the god loving world she had deserved this fate.

As if being stabbed through the chest by a soul stealing sword that wrenched her very being from her mortal coil, only to be revived and forced to slaughter her people wasn’t punishment enough, now she was also saddled with this buffoonery.

“In addition to the gold, the Warchief requires another twenty galleons worth of steel, lumber and coal. Furthermore, he demands that the Forsaken push out their line at least twenty kilometres and establish a fortress at Ironpeak Mountain by winter.” The orcish emissary stated with a sneer so disdainful on his face, it would make a sin’dorei turn green from jealousy.

“And pray tell how exactly does Garrosh expect me to meet those demands in such a short amount of time?” Sylvanas asked as she finally meet the orc’s haughty stare with a bored one of her own. “Will he be sending ships? Men, warriors, loggers and miners?”

The emissary gave off a horse like snort and shook his head with enough vigour to make his flappy lips send strings of slobber fly every which way. A few intrepid drops even managed to bridge the gap between the edge of the dais and her throne, only to speckle her polished boots with drool.

Her gloved hands twitched from barely supressed, murderous rage. At the same time invisible bowstrings tightened in the deep shadows that suffused the corners of her throne room and black steel garnered a deathly, purplish glow.

She was of half a mind to let her dark rangers strike down the fool for his act of sacrilege. But after a moment she thought better of it and signalled for her rangers to stand down. Her long, pointy ears twitched at the faint groan of slackening bowstrings.

The slobbering beast would meet his end on Garrosh’s axe soon enough. The Warchief’s emissaries didn’t tend to live long, happy lives. Especially the foolish ones, to which this one could surely be counted.

Watching his gloating expression turn to shock as cold steel sunk into his abdomen, while enjoyable, just wouldn’t make up for the endless whining another dead diplomate would garner her from the Warchief. And that didn’t even consider the doubtless costly concessions the Forsaken would have to make to retain their place in the Horde.

No, the momentary satisfaction just wasn’t worth the trouble.

With a deep sigh Sylvanas returned her attention to the slobbering fool, who had lost none of his vigour and was still waxing on about the Warchief’s exact demands. She offered him a semblance of attention but couldn’t resist the temptation of resting her chin on her propped-up hand.

As she did so, she hoped that the orc would be finished soon; even the combined patience of an elf and undeath had its limits.

Same Time, Different Dimension

“What’s he doing?” Private Davis asked his partner, nodding at the new guy. Private Garcia had joined the ranks of Overwatch only recently, a transfer from the Marines, and so far, he had seemed pleasant enough.

Private Miller eyed the crouched soldier for a moment, then offered with a shrug, “I think he’s utilising cover.”

“Huh.”

“Jup,” Miller agreed, “I guess this is his first time coming under fire since joining Overwatch. He’ll get that out of his system soon enough.” He stretched his upper back and strolled further down the road, past the crouching soldier and towards the wide pillars of black, oily smoke.

“Speaking of which, I’ve got this damned,” another stretch, “crick in my back that just won’t go away. I was this close,” Miller held up his hand and pinched the air, “of having a little accident during the next combat exercise.”

Davis turned his head, ignoring the rattling of machine gun fire in the vicinity and settled his attention on the man walking next to him.

“Why wait?”

Miller attempted a shrug and winced at the spark of pain. “The brass has it out for me,” he grunted, as the pain finally abated. “I got blood on the CO’s boots the last time and he’ll just not let it go.”

He shook his head, “Fucker.”

“Jup,” Davis agreed and gave his head a vigorous bob.

Apparently, he used a bit too much force, as it suddenly detached from his neck and fell to the ground. His headless body remained standing for a second, almost as if it had a will of its own. But then the loud bang of the sniper’s rifle finally caught up to them and seemingly reminded the standing corpse of the situation of things.

A heartbeat later, his form slowly crumbled in on itself, until it came to a rest in an ungainly heap on the bloodied road.

“Motherfucker!” Miller shouted and did a few jumping jacks on the spot, “Heyooo!” But no matter how obvious of a target he made himself, there was not another report from the rifle.

Meanwhile, Private Garcia had ducked himself deep into the shallow cover of a recessed door and was frantically shouting into his mic, “Man down! I repeat, man down!”

“Can it!” Miller barked. After another jump, he gave up on it and showed the hidden sniper the bird. “Fucking French bitch,” he muttered under his breath and gave the corpse of his friend a good kick.

“Hey! Get into cover now!” Garcia said and waved for Miller to move, careful to keep his hand behind cover the entire time.

Miller just rolled his eyes and sat down on the sticky street. “Why do you always have all of the luck!”

Thirty seconds later a warm, golden light suffused the body of his friend. The bright halo lasted for barely two seconds before it shed of his form. For a moment, it seemed like nothing had changed. That impression lasted for all but two second before the bloody pile twitched.

“Ahh,” Private Davis groaned as he slowly made it to his feet, his head firmly attached to his repaired neck. “You never know how much was broken until after a revive.” The soldier said with a happy grin on his face.

“You lucky sod,” Miller muttered and resumed his amble down the street.

“Man, I feel great,” Davis took a few jogging steps until he was ahead of his friend and then walked backwards, facing him, “like new. You should really give it a try.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“I can break you again, if you want.” Miller said in a huff, brandishing his balled fist. “No problem at all.”

This drew a chuckle from Davis. “Bring it, old man!” He said, then turned and booked it down the open road, all the while chortling like a crazed man.

“Fucker,” Miller groaned, then raced after his partner.

“Huh?” Garcia said, still crouching in his alcove and wondering if he should have worn his gasmask. And if that would have protected him from whatever hallucinogenic agent Junkrat had used in his bombs.

One road over a blonde woman garbed in white armour was regarding the soot covered form of Junkrat. Her eyes had a look of confusion to them and her head was held at a bird-like cant.

“Come again?” She said, her voice sounding no less surprised.

“Could you pleeease step on there?” The squirrely man tittered, arm stretched out and pointed at the bold, red cross painted on the road surface.

Mercy bent her head further to the side, almost bringing it into the horizontal as her eyes flicked between the mark and the Talon agent. “Why?”

“Why not?” Jamison asked seriously, as if it were strange not to step on an obvious mark painted by the enemy.

Angela righted her head and focused firmly on Junkrat. Though she couldn’t prevent her eyes completely from straying to the tantalising red X from time to time.

“I mean… I’ve seen at least some cartoons.” She nodded at the mark, “that’s obviously a trap.”

A thoughtful expression appeared on Junkrat’s face and he tapped his chin with a blackened finger. He seemed completely unbothered by the thick, black soot the motion spread all over his lower face.

“So?”

“So, why should I stumble into an obvious trap?”

“Eh…” Jamison scratched the back of his head, and promptly flinched when he burned his fingers on his lightly smouldering hair. He shook his fingers for a moment, and then stuck them into his mouth, smudging his pearly white teeth. “It’s not really a trap if it is obvious, eh?”

He wiggled his eyebrows for good measure, and then added, “and since it’s obviously not a trap, it is the safest place to stand as everywhere else could be a trap.”

Mercy squinted at the faintly smoking man and shook her head, “Nah… I don’t think so.” Then she pointed a gloved hand at Junkrat’s single foot. “You’re not standing on the ‘X’ either.”

“But, but… I like getting blown up!” Junkrat stared at Mercy with wide, round eyes, his expression and tone completely sincere. “I mean look.” He threw both arms forward and pulled his peg leg all the way to his naked chest, ending in an almost perfect standing split. “Eh, eh?”

“That’s a good point,” Angela admitted, thoughtful. The Junker was almost as well known for his penchant of blowing himself up as he was for his acts of terrorism. But still, she wasn’t quite convinced yet. Jamison had a shorter attention span than his fuses, that he hadn’t already blown her up was telling.

“But still…”

“Oh, come on, birdy!” He all but shouted and threw his arms into the air. In his annoyance he forgot that he was still holding on to his peg leg, overbalanced and crashed to the ground, spilling grenades everywhere.

The pair of them froze where they stood, or in Junkrat’s case lay, and eyed the rolling explosives carefully. They flinched in unison as one of them bumped into the curb and exhaled a moment later when it didn’t detonate.

“On that note,” Mercy said and turned back to Junkrat, “I think it’s time for you to surrender.” She eyed one of the still rolling grenades, “before you blow this entire neighbourhood to kingdom come. I’ve got this really interesting book about dermatophytes at home, that I would really fancy reading. I’d rather not waste my evening piecing together an entire community.”

She pulled a pair of handcuffs from a pouch on her back and waved them at him. “We just oiled the mouse wheel,” she said with an enticing wiggle of her brows, “so how about it?”

Junkrat turned on his side, propped his peg leg up and bent it at the knee. He regarded her with a long, thoughtful look. “How about… You scratch my back and I scratch yours?” He nodded at the red mark on the ground. “You step on there for thirty seconds, and then I’ll come with you.” He grinned winningly at her, “how does that sound.”

“I’d rather not.” Mercy said slowly, all the while wondering if that wouldn’t be the fastest way in the end. If it came down to a fight, she’d have to reconstruct herself anyway. And if he kept his words, then at least she wouldn’t have to run after him through a maze of IEDs and bear traps.

“You’re a mean birdy!” Jamison shouted and flopped flat on his back. He struck the asphalt with his balled fist for good measure. “Meany, Meany, Meany.” He raised his head and pointed an accusing finger at her. “I put so much effort into this!” He cried, angrily.

“You did?” Mercy tilted her head.

“Jup! Months and months and months. At least four of them,” he flashed four dirty fingers at her, “four!”

Angela screwed her pretty face up and hummed in thought.

“Oh, well.” She said, “if it means that much to you. I’ll do it.”

Junkrat instantly jumped to his feet; the motion was surprisingly spry for someone missing a leg.

“For realsies?”

“Yeah,” Mercy bobbed her head and offered him an indulgent smile, “for realsies.”

“Ohoho,” Junkrat chuckled as he jumped from foot to peg, “this will be great.”

“Sooo… I just step on there?” Mercy asked, her arm extended towards the hastily painted cross.

“Jup, and count to thirty!”

“Okay,” Mercy said with a nod and quickly stepped onto the marked spot. Once she was situated firmly on it, she started counting the seconds. As she counted, her head moved as if it where on a swivel, from side to side, from high to low, wondering what it would be.

When she reached six, she froze and rounded on Junkrat, “It’s not another nuke, right?”

“No, no, no.” He shook his head like crazy. “Keep counting!”

“Seven, eight… And it’s nothing distasteful? Nine, ten…”

“Of course not, birdy!” Junkrat cried indignantly, as if the mere thought of it was revolting.

At fifteen, violet sparks appeared in the air all around her. She lifted her hand and touched one of them curiously. To her surprise her fingers went right through it, as if it weren’t even there.

“Curious,” she mumbled to herself and threw her analytics into high gear. It looked like Junkrat had really outdone himself this time.

By the twentieth second, the lone sparks had been joined by countless friends, and the lot of them weaved together into tight, swirling bands that showed an interesting, geometrical pattern. They reminded her a bit of the runes she had seen on her visits to Egypt.

Five seconds later, warning bells started to ring in her head, as an unbelievable amount of energy gathered just below where she stood. She grinned, this seemed promising. It had been so long since she had been killed in a new and interesting way. There was only so much data one could gather from getting shot. Bullets had really lost their lustre to her.

The moment she reached thirty, the ground beneath her feet vanished, and a blinding torrent of violet light burst forth, swallowing her lithe form whole. An unbelievable amount of energy raced through her body, wracked her muscles, and made them cramp and contract. A nanosecond later the wave blasted through her brain, scrambled her thoughts, and sent her consciousness spiralling into inky blackness.

The torrent expanded for less than a second, but still surpassed some of the surrounding buildings in height. Then, in the blink of an eye, it collapsed in on itself and vanished into the perfectly round hole in the ground.

Junkrat blinked his eyes a few times, forcing the afterimages of the blinding pillar from his retina. When he managed to keep his eye open for longer than a heartbeat, he started chuckling.

There was no trace of Mercy anymore.

His outpouring of mirth turned to full blown laughter.

They had won! The world was theirs for the picking.

He pulled his grenade launcher from his back and readied it with an ease that came from years of use. “This… this is going to be fun.” He gave a whooping cry and ambled down the road, ready to blow some blue garbed shits to smithereens.

And this time, the shreds of cooked meat wouldn’t just pull back together once he turned his back on them!

Somewhere far away, safely behind twenty chained proxy servers, a violet haired girl stared unbelieving at her hovering screen.

“The fuck…?” She said, the first words she had spoken in an hour. “How…?” She shook her head, flinging her long hair every which way. Scarcely able to believe the stupidity of that exchange.

“Maldita sea!” She shouted after a moment and scrambled out of her seat. Her nano cola had slipped from her loose fingers and spilled all over the floor. “Mierda!” She ripped off her shirt and threw it on the puddle before it had a chance to reach her computer tower. “Mierda!” She chanted again, as she raced towards her kitchen in search of a roll of household paper.

Sylvanas patience was growing thin. The blithering fool seemed to be completely immune to her obvious signs of boredom. Although, he might also have picked up on them and continued his long-winded monologue just to spite her.

The Dark Lady scrutinised him for a moment with glowing eyes, then waggled her ears. That seemed a bit too demanding for someone whose breastplate was covered in slobber. Speaking of which, another string of spittle almost reached her as the orc talked himself into a frenzy. So, she decided to tune back in, maybe he was finally saying something relevant.

“The quality of the weave you supplied us with was subpar. Not even fit for a goblin!” Her ears drooped and she let out another, uncharacteristic sigh. When did they even provide the Horde with fabric in the first place? That wasn’t one of their usual trade goods. At least, not down here in the Undercity. She knew well enough for how long its distinct smell could linger on garments. Which was a bit of a problem for her rangers and spies.

Her gaze flitted over some of the more decomposed servants lining the walls of her throne rooms. Also, rotting hands didn’t make for good tailors.

She flicked one of her ears at Nathanos, who stood to her right. But her champion just shook his head.

She let out another sigh, it was times like these where she almost missed Varimathras. He might have been a conniving bastard, but he had been the best majordomo she ever had.

“Windrunner!? Are you listening?” The emissary suddenly barked. Apparently, he had expected her participation in this talk for the first time in an hour.

“Of course, emissary,” Sylvanas said with a roll of her eyes, which went completely over his head. Though, in the orc’s defence it must be said that it hadn’t been very obvious. Glowing eyes and all that. “The dead are always listening.”

“Well then, how are you going to rectify these grievances?” He sneered down at her seated form, radiating a sense of superiority that had no business surrounding someone with so little fame to their name; whatever it was. Sylvanas hadn’t bothered remembering it, or even asking for it.

_Killing you…_ She chuckled to herself, imagining how the oaf would react to those words. Her eyes flickered to the gem encrusted axe on his belt. Would he try and go for his weapon? Would he spit and flounder as he tried to talk his way out of her sanctum? Or would he laugh, like Garrosh would?

Eh, it probably wouldn’t be the later. There were few people that could match her in combat, and fewer still that would be able to fight their way out of the Undercity.

“Corpse!”

Her gloved hands twitched, and inky darkness leaked from her exposed skin.

“What did you just call me?” Sylvanas asked, deceptively calm and leaned forwards.

He jutted his chin up and twisted his lips into an arrogant grin. “I called you exactly what you are, a filthy, reeking cor…” he said, until he was rudely interrupted mid word by a sudden onset of a serious case of the deads. The cause of which was the spontaneous appearance of a rip in the fabric of space at the very point he had been standing.

Had been was the operative phrase here, as his soft flesh had yielded to the will of space and had torn itself apart.

“Okay, who was that?” Sylvanas demanded to know as she eyed the undistinctive piece of ragged meat in her lap. It looked a bit like a thigh, she mused. She was about to pick it up and fling it to one of her ghouls when a bright light burst forth from the tear in space.

She was quick to shield her eyes, but even so it took her serval seconds to recover her eyesight enough for her to make anything out in the suddenly dark hall.

Once she did, she raised an eyebrow. The portal was gone, but not without a trace. It had left a blonde woman garbed in a strange armour behind.

A woman that, to her expert eye, appeared stone cold dead.


End file.
